


Sweet Love and Soul's Delight

by handlebarstiedtothestars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 17th Century, After The Globe scene, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Composing, Early 1600s, Footnotes, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Madrigals, Music, Musical Accuracy, Musical References, One Shot, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to Hamlet, Shakespearean era, Trying not to be in love, celestial harmonies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlebarstiedtothestars/pseuds/handlebarstiedtothestars
Summary: Whenever they crossed paths, Aziraphale found an odd sensation grumbling in his stomach at the sight of Crowley. At first, he assumed it was some type of indigestion. Maybe his humours were out of balance. Perhaps this corporeal form had inevitably succumbed to one of those plagues going around that wiped out so many people. Yes, that must be it, he was clearly dying. A shame, really; he had grown quite fond of this body, and he imagined it would take some time to wear in a new one to the point of well-used comfort he presently enjoyed.It was only two years later when he very definitely had not died that Aziraphale began to realise the feeling might not be physical, but rather more abstract.A little fic set in the years following Crowley making Hamlet a success. Aziraphale, trying to ignore his growing feelings, decides to try composing music to reconnect with his divine purpose. It's not as easy as he anticipates.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	Sweet Love and Soul's Delight

**Author's Note:**

> I galaxy brained during a choir rehearsal and then talked to some people on the server about it aaaaand here we are... Big thanks to Silentsonata for all their invaluable composing insight, and to Wortlby2 and Lurlur for beta reading!

Aziraphale had heard murmurings about Hamlet’s newfound success on his way back from Edinburgh, enough that he decided to return to the Globe for a matinee performance a few days after he got home. He was shocked to find it completely sold out, but managed to charm his way into the standing space. It was uncomfortably packed, people brushing shoulder to shoulder, but soon everyone forgot themselves as Master Burbage made his way across the boards, haunting the stage with his melancholy performance. Aziraphale broke out in rapturous applause at the end, tears streaking his cheeks as he whooped and cheered for the players, their happiness at the audience’s adoration evident on their faces.

Oh, Crowley needn’t have gone so far. How _nice_ of him.

 _Nice is a four-letter word, angel,_ said the imaginary Crowley in Aziraphale’s head, the snarl in his voice betrayed by an involuntary upward curl of his lips. 

Over the next few years, Aziraphale found his mind wandering back to Crowley. It started off well-intentioned enough – how kind he was, for a demon; how thoughtful he was, for a demon; how handsome he was for a – oh. Oh dear.

Whenever they crossed paths, Aziraphale found an odd sensation grumbling in his stomach at the sight of Crowley. At first, he assumed it was some type of indigestion. Maybe his humours were out of balance. Perhaps this corporeal form had inevitably succumbed to one of those plagues going around that wiped out so many people. Yes, that must be it, he was clearly dying. A shame, really; he had grown quite fond of this body, and he imagined it would take some time to wear in a new one to the point of well-used comfort he presently enjoyed.

It was only two years later when he very definitely had not died that Aziraphale began to realise the feeling might not be physical, but rather more abstract. It worsened when he examined Crowley in profile, noting the contrast between his curved, statuesque nose and his angular jawline. It worsened when Crowley removed his glasses during their drinking dates – uh, meet ups – and those amber eyes glinted, a wry smile creating delightful wrinkles in their corners. It worsened when Aziraphale realised he wasn’t actually hearing what Crowley was saying because he was so fixated on watching those soft blush lips and tongue moving, wondering what they would feel like against his –

Aziraphale dropped everything to travel to the nearest monastery with the intention of staying there for quite some time – though not quite long enough for the monks to notice exactly how challenged he was in the “visibly aging” department. A decade or two in a disciplined and sacred place of worship would do Aziraphale the world of good. He could reconnect with his Higher Purpose as a Principality, get back in sync with Heaven.[1] After all, he hadn’t been chosen as Guardian of the Eastern Gate at random; he was a highly trained expert. Or at least he had been… he just needed to find himself again.

He lasted all of four days before he was asked to leave the monastery. On the first day, he expressed concern about the nutritional quality of the food. On the second day, he corrected the Abbot’s interpretation of a Bible verse. On the third day, he went to listen to the choir singing in the abbey, and was appalled to find they were no longer singing the celestial harmonies the angels had passed on only a few hundred years before; he tried to act as a choirmaster and quickly fell out of favour even with the most patient devotees. On the fourth day, he outright complained about the food.[2]

He returned to London in the rain, feeling an odd mixture of embarrassed yet zealous in his need to reconnect with God’s Goodness and Love. Evidently the monasteries weren’t going to do it, or weren’t going to do it right. No, he would have to get himself back on track, return to his full potential so he could better thwart the wiles of Hell, to his full strength so he could counteract the reach of Cr- _Satan’s_ hand.

Thinking over his short monastic break, he smiled wistfully as he had thought of how he had enjoyed his all too brief stint helping the choir. Perhaps he could reconnect to God’s message and love through music? After all, what could be more Divine than performing - no, composing music for Her? Perhaps he could share those celestial harmonies with the world once more. He grimaced… as much as the celestial harmonies were an integral part of the Heavenly regimen (and therefore _should_ have still been included in monastic teachings, whatever Brother John said), Aziraphale wasn’t too fond of them himself, if he was being entirely too honest. He glanced skyward, hoping God couldn’t read his mind. No, if he wanted to renew his own zeal _and_ get the message out he needed a popular vehicle, something that everyone would be familiar with and appreciate. What were they writing nowadays? Aziraphale leafed through his collection of printed music, and found an emerging pattern of similar music – ah yes, _madrigals._ Songs about Love, he seemed to recall being told once. Very good fun for after dinner entertainment with guests. Between two and eight voices, all working together to create beautiful, harmonious music. Yes, he was sure he could write a madrigal. How hard could it possibly be?

Aziraphale studied the madrigals in his collection with a newfound enthusiasm. This task would be challenging enough to keep his mind focused, get him back in sync with Heaven. After all, as they say, the Devil finds work for idle hands. Not that Crowley’s slender hands were ever idle, the demon was never still… Oh, bother, now he’d lost his place.

When he eventually emerged from piles of sheet music, having poured studiously over the collection of post-dinner madrigals he academically owned, he felt he had a reasonable understanding of the basic concepts and where to begin. He had been somewhat dismayed to find all the songs seemed to focus on love in the mortal context and not the Divine, and in the last hour had found his mind slipping back to thoughts of auburn hair aflame in the sunlight - no. No that wouldn't do at all. He grabbed his small Bible from the shelf and leafed through to the psalms, finding a short verse with some rhythm and vigour to it, miracled up some blank manuscript paper, and set to work.

Halfway through the morning, Aziraphale found himself frowning at the tune he had painstakingly written out, and realised with much annoyance it was awfully similar to the tune he had been trying to teach the monks. “Oh!” he grumbled, and miracled the manuscript blank again. 

It took almost the rest of the day to compose a pleasant sounding tune, painfully plucked out on the little lute he had miracled up, and by that evening it had lost all meaning to him. Aziraphale was further disappointed when he looked up at the darkening sky and huffed a little sigh. The bakery would be closed now, he lamented, pouting, his craving for pie forcibly pushed down. The remainder of the evening was spent writing out the harmony line and adding the finishing touches, dynamics and other performance directions he had seen included in pieces in his collection before, thoroughly fed up with the whole endeavour, he finally retired to his study with a good book.

In the morning light, he was actually quite proud of the little ditty. It bore resemblance to the other two-part songs in his collection, he thought, and his writing was clear and precise. Oh yes, this would be a wonderful new hobby. He wanted to test the piece out, but he would need another willing participant. 

Rolling up the manuscript, he threw on a coat and hastened down the street towards Cr- no. No. But where else could he find someone with a hearty enough voice to carry a tune… _Ah_ , he smiled, _what was that delightful phrase regarding two gaps and one bush?_ He turned around and made his way west, towards the bakery. It should just be opening, he thought, glancing up at the lightening lilac sky.

William flinched as Aziraphale proudly held up the manuscript in front of him, beaming like the sun. William gingerly took the paper and looked it over. "Blimey, Aziraphale, this is...a bit heavy-handed." He saw the blond man's face fall, that effervescent sparkle leaving his eyes, and chuckled, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Oh come now, banish that frown, dear friend! It's a.... it's a first effort. Well done for making a good go of it. But look here," he pointed at the paper, "You can't put the entire harmony line in thirds for the whole song, it's going to sound boring and, truthfully, awful. And here - you've made it forte on the word "soft" - you've got to think about your word-painting. Speaking of word-painting, don't use Bible verses."

"But - "

"No." William frowned and tilted his head as he looked at the paper, "Besides, the devil's snuck into your 'holy' music."

"What??" Aziraphale blushed a hearty shade of pink, definitely not thinking about a certain occult being.

"Look, there's a tritone - here, on the word 'angel'."

"Tritone?"

"The Devil's interval."

" _Oh my_."

William laughed and shoved the manuscript back into Aziraphale's chest, clapping him on the back, "You have a lot to fix there, I'm afraid. We're having a dinner party tonight, there'll be singing after. Why don't you come along. You might learn a thing or two that could help if you're serious about this."

Aziraphale nodded. He was as serious as the Plague.

He certainly did learn a thing or two. Firstly he hadn't realised how many of the modern madrigals ended in rousing tacked on renditions of 'Long Live Fair Oriana'.

"Who's Oriana?" Aziraphale had asked another guest, who simply scoffed and turned away, their nose high in the air. William kicked him under the table, and mouthed "The Queen!", miming a crown on his head. Aziraphale chuckled nervously, nodding his understanding. Evidently this new queen required a lot of reassurance she was liked if every new song had to have her praises lauded as the finale. 

“You should add Long Live Fair Oriana to yours!” William grinned, “Got to have that in. It’ll fix it.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale smiled politely. Something about having half his madrigal be an ode to the current Queen didn’t sit right in his stomach. He was sure she was lovely, but worship and praise for an idol… he didn’t want to be called up for a reprimand from Gabriel or Metatron any time soon. He sighed, remembering the good old days of beautiful monastic "Amen" choruses. Those had been delightful. He thought he might go a tad old-fashioned and use one of those instead. There was only one word - albeit two syllables - to contend with, and besides, there could be no question of him worshipping anyone except God Herself.

The second thing he learned came to him with such stomach-churning clarity that it made him want to go home and start over immediately, and his blush ran from his cheeks down beneath his ruff. He sidled up to their inebriated host, and gently nudged him.

"William?"

"Hmm?"

"That last one - the one about May?"

"Month of Maying,[3] yes!"

"Yes, um - lovely tune isn't it, so, uh, so very... lively and... merry."

"Merry!" William held his glass up in a toasting gesture and downed the rest of his drink.

"Quite. I was, uh, I was wondering - all those 'fa la la' sections - is that.... that is to say - is that just nonsense, filler words, or does it mean... something..." Before he could even get the word 'else' out the entire cohort were bent double with laughter, nudging each other or clutching their sides. Aziraphale understood most clearly, and excused himself for the evening shortly after that. 

He threw his manuscript on the embers of the fire the next morning and resolved to begin again. 

“ _No bible verses_ ,” he griped to himself, scouring his bookshelf for some suitable poetry, “Well if they can rule that out then I’m ruling out _Orianas_ and _fa la la.”_ He grew sullen and impatient, muttering to himself and flipping with careless speed through the pages before placing the books back on the shelf. Maybe he needed another opinion, someone who knew poetry, maybe someone who could write poetry, or at least who had a way with words.

_“Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety.”_

Or perhaps he could manage perfectly well on his own, thank you very much. “Ah,” he smiled, stabbing the page he had landed on with his finger, “Now, this might well do.”

_Follow me, sweet love and soul’s delight_ ,

_Or else by my exile my soul is severed quite,_

_My hand, my heart, my faith, my love, my life is thine._

_O save thine own if thou wilt not do mine._

Not a Bible verse, and it probably couldn’t end in an ‘Amen’ chorus, but would a shepherd not call to their flock for them to follow? Is God’s love not sweet? Does it not delight the soul? Would Aziraphale not offer up his hand, love, life to Her in service?

Satisfied, he set diligently to work. His two-part first attempt entirely forgotten, he found himself adding more and more parts, the lines weaving in polyphony, coming together in homophony on key words and phrases. It certainly looked beautiful on paper. He had almost reached the end and was terribly pleased with himself when he gasped sharply, pulling the paper closer to him. Yes, there it was - Crowley - er, that is, a _tritone_ , a devil in the music, between the bass line and the uppermost voice. “Oh… _bother_ ,” he whined, as he spotted another later on in the piece, along with a clashing passage on the second line, and the realisation that from the third stave he had written the tenor line a beat out.

That afternoon, after a trip to the bakery for some comfort and reassurance from William,[4] Aziraphale returned to his task. He tried to keep it a little simpler with just 4 parts, and plucked out a delightful tripping melody on his lute. But damnation, if he could write anything to go with it. He would get the bass line in check, but then where to put the tenor? Then he would sort them out and realise the alto line had been on the same two notes for the entire verse.

Frustrated he poured himself a large mead and stared at the page until he felt that if it had any respect for his authority at all it should have burst into Heavenly white flames by now. Two lines had been too simplistic, six too difficult to keep track, and four just didn’t seem to be working out in the slightest.

“What about three…” he mumbled to himself as he hugged his mead to his chest. It made more sense, surely - not too few, not too many. Three to represent the Holy Trinity perhaps? 

He worked through the night, and when the dawn came he held his manuscript up, staring at it in awe. Rushing to grab his lute from where he had flung it onto the bed in frustration at some point around the witching hour, now he played through the piece, reading the three lines together, and the harmony they made could, he thought blasphemously, rival some of those celestial harmonies. It was so rewarding to hear all those little nuances and elements come together to form something larger and more complex. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he played, now from memory, and he could _see_ the music. There was the bass line - a steady galaxy sparkle, pulsing with light, subtly leading and keeping the piece on track and in time, not always noticeable but always there - rather like the Almighty Herself, Aziraphale thought, smiling. And then there were the two top lines, one white and gold, one red and black, dancing around each other, intertwining and overlapping, so different but so similar, born of the same pen, written upon the same page, and so intrinsically designed around and for each other. The stars and the gold and the red came together, bright and grand as he struck the final chord, and took on the shapes of the Almighty, himself and -

A string snapped on the lute, catching Aziraphale’s hand and making him cry out. He felt a cold sweat on his skin as he looked down at the piece. No, he thought firmly, no the third line can be for whoever wishes to sing it. It doesn’t have to be anyone in particular...

“In fact,” he said out loud, his voice squeaky with anxiety as he tried desperately not to think how those codependent red and gold lines had wrapped around each other, “Even if there was some latent, subconscious intent behind it… well, it - um, that doesn’t mean it _has_ to be linked to that - to any _particular_ person. After all, it’s not like God Herself would actually come down to every dinner party and sing the bass line.”

“I didn’t know God Herself _sang_ ,” drawled an all too familiar voice from the doorway, and Aziraphale almost cried out again, clasping a hand to his mouth. The voice continued, “Morning, angel. How goes it?”

“Fine,” Aziraphale squeaked, turning around and putting the lute down on the table, “Truly, all is… _Good._ ”

“Hngk, sounds terrible,” Crowley said dryly with a lopsided smile, “Been up to much?” He drew nearer, circling around Aziraphale towards the table. The angel instinctively shifted to hide the manuscript.

“Oh you know, the usual. Blessing babies, mentoring priests, assisting as and where I can to undo your evildoings…” Aziraphale smiled, almost apologetically. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“I hear you’ve been to see Hamlet three times.”

“Who told you that?”

“I have operatives,” Crowley shrugged, “Got to keep an eye on you.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale bristled, “We must keep the _enemy_ in our sights.”

Crowley just looked at him, now far too close for Aziraphale’s comfort. The angel wiggled. Then the demon’s eyes fell on the table and he moved the lute aside, tipping his head as he grinned. “ _Ah_ , so you’ve been having a go at some celestial harmonies, eh?” he purred, and he snatched the manuscript up faster than Aziraphale could turn and make a grab for it.

“It’s not finished!” he cried, “Please, I still need to fix some parts.”

“Looks plenty finished to me, angel,” Crowley mused. Frowning, he flipped the page over and then back. “Is this…” he guffawed, his demonic cackle echoing in the small room, “Is this a madrigal??”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said primly. 

“You are full of surprises, angel. I’d never have taken you for one to dabble in such deviances.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale pouted, snatching the manuscript back and rolling it up, “This, if anything, is an improvement upon the base form of the madrigal - there are no Orianas worshipping idols, and none of that sinful ‘fa la la’ nonsense.”

“Sinful??” Crowley laughed, wide-eyed, “Angel, don’t tell me you of all people didn’t do your research on madrigals.”

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale snapped, “I studied the form, the common motifs, I even attended an admittedly rather debauched, if I do say so, dinner party where I heard many modern madrigals sung. I thoroughly researched them before beginning my composition and I do not appreciate you implying otherwise. ”

Crowley had picked the manuscript back up off the desk and was reading through it. “But not the history?” he asked flatly.

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t research their history, their origin?”

“I - well, I - ” Aziraphale spluttered, frowning. He threw his hands up, “Well I must admit I didn’t. But what history can they have? They’re the modern popular form. And I thought I might put my own Heavenly spin on them, get more of the Divine into the everyday, spread Her word through the song of the everyman.”

Crowley scoffed, “They’re certainly the song of the everyman.” 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Crowley, whatever you have to say, out with it.”

“I was quite proud when madrigals became popular,” Crowley said, with a sly smile and no small degree of glee in his teasing.

“ _You_ were proud?”

“Oh yes. You see, they were originally derived from some little drinking ditties I came up with during my time in Italy. I think they called them Frotollas…”

“Oh no…”

“Oh yes...Smutty. Italian. Drinking. Songs.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, and for once he was rendered speechless. Crowley circled him, still looking through the music as he continued his taunting, “The lewdest, crudest and rudest possible songs one hears in public houses the world over in the early hours of the morning - oh yes, _those_ songs _I created_ ,” he laughed again, “were the birthplace of this little ditty you’re trying to purify.” 

Aziraphale shuddered, horrified, his mouth gone dry as all the thoughts of Crowley that had triggered his journey into divine composing collided with sickening force in the forefront of his mind. “Well I, uh, I had, um, frankly no idea that was the… the case.”

Crowley had gone quiet, and Aziraphale watched his slender hand trace along the second line of the song: _Or else by my exile, my soul is severed quite._ Crowley’s face had gone pale, and it was only as Aziraphale watched something akin to panic play across the demon’s face that another meaning of that line clicked into place in his mind. _Crowley was_ _exiled...severed..._ Dark glasses met wide ocean-coloured eyes and for a few moments they watched each other nervously, Aziraphale’s face blush red, Crowley’s eyes darting between the angel and the music behind his mercifully dark glasses.

“But,” Aziraphale said, breaking the tense silence and standing taller, straightening his doublet, “if my intentions were devout and true, I’m sure the Almighty can find it in her heart to forgive my involuntary discretion at the hands of a demonic trickster.” He knew in his heart his intentions had been the furthest thing from devout, but the more he said it, the more he could believe it was the truth.

“I’m sure,” Crowley drawled. He rolled up the manuscript, gripping it tightly in his hands, “Probably best not to keep this around though, in case anyone drops in? I’ll keep it safe for you? Write someone else’s name on it - Michael maybe.”

Aziraphale giggled instinctively, clapping his hand to his mouth and glancing skyward, “Really, Crowley you mustn’t say things like that!”

Crowley shrugged, “Not like I can be any more damned.” He paused in the doorway, and Aziraphale’s eyes fell to the offending manuscript. Crowley waved a half-hearted farewell. “Best be off then. Lots of tempting to do.”

Aziraphale shook his head, his thoughts clearing, “Did you stop by for a reason?”

“Oh,” Crowley leaned on the doorframe, “Off to Germany this weekend, I thought you’d said you were going there soon?”

Aziraphale stilled, thinking over his instructions to bless a new church in Germany tomorrow. “How long are you there?”

“Oh, a few days, maybe about a week.”

“Ah, pity,” he lied, clasping his hands behind his back, “I’m not due there for a few weeks.” He could fudge the dates on his report. No one would be any the wiser, and frankly he needed some breathing space right now. He wondered if the monastery would give him a second chance. “Perhaps our plans will align next time.” It was becoming concerning how often they were assigned to the same areas. Almost as if the Almighty knew… Aziraphale glanced out of the window at the high clouds with no small measure of irritation.

Crowley shrugged, and span the manuscript around in his hand, “Sure, maybe next time. Best get this sinful song out of your holy presence.” He gave a mockingly low bow and was gone from the doorway before Aziraphale could object.

Two months later, Aziraphale was sitting at another dinner party with William the Baker and his wife and cousins, and someone brought out a book of madrigals. It was new, they explained, and everyone was still sober enough for some sight-reading. William leafed through the book, finally settling on a piece. “Look, a trio! Well this will be a fine song for myself, my wife and our dear friend and patron Aziraphale, the best countertenor I have heard in all my days. Come, man, you have not joined in all night, come sing with us!”

“Oh, William, really you are _far_ too kind!” Aziraphale smiled, taking a deep breath. These tunes were likely to be in fashion for some more time yet, and it would probably be best if he confronted his trauma over them head-on and was done with it. Putting his drink down, he stood and said, “Truly, I would be most honoured to join you and your fair wife in a song.” 

They all gathered about the table, and William struck a chord on the lute. The pair hummed their starting notes, but Aziraphale did not. He had gone ghost-white as he stared at the title of the piece.  
  


 _Follow me, sweet love_ by Michael East.[5]  
  


 _That bastard_ , Aziraphale thought.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1 ...without actually needing to spend any time in that cold, pristine place. Ambrosia was all well and good as a treat now and then, but for every meal it grew tiresome very quickly.[return to text]
> 
> 2 He would actually take daily ambrosia over the grey sludge provided here.[return to text]
> 
> 3 [ Now is the Month of Maying](https://youtu.be/EwJLKdU50KE)[return to text]
> 
> 4 And comfort eating in the form of some of his fine cakes.[return to text]
> 
> 5[ Follow me sweet love by Michael East](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY2NBJf_rSg)[return to text]  
>  Yes, it's real, and "Michael East" is (allegedly) real - now do you understand why I galaxy brained??  
> Bonus - [The Origin of Madrigals source](https://youtu.be/y7xQ2UX3Sy0?t=102)


End file.
